


Thanksgiving Aesthetic

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adopted Children, Family, Humor, M/M, Multi, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armand had a plan for Thanksgiving. This was not it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving Aesthetic

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr.](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/131082603154/requested-by-spartanlady16-the-musketeers)

If Richelieu had a Pinterest – and he doesn’t. He’d like to make this very clear. He doesn’t have a Pinterest and any kind of Pinterest-seeming website Treville might have seen over Armand’s shoulder was a vivid and ridiculous hallucination and he should get that checked out.

But if he did have one, it would look something like this:

Happy things. Peaceful things. Romantic things, even. A vision of a wholesome, healthy, pious Thanksgiving, with a well-organized checklist of dinner items, and a quiet game of Monopoly before dessert. This is what Armand was aiming for this year. 

This is what actually happens on Thanksgiving. 

* * *

 

**8 a.m.**

Jean rolls over, nuzzles his nose into Armand’s neck, and says, “If I could just  _try_  deep-frying the turkey…” 

“No,” says Armand firmly. “I don’t want the house to burn down because you thought you’d give us all heart attacks. You’re sticking to something you can’t ruin.” 

Jean tries to convince him in interesting and noteworthy ways, but Armand stands strong. 

**9:30 a.m.**

Armand finishes his morning routine, drains his cup of strong black tea, and dons his apron. He rolls up his sleeves and sets to work. 

**10:30 a.m.**

Jean comes back from his run; Armand manages to fend off his sweat-soaked embrace.

**10:32 a.m.**

Jean tries to steal a radish, and is thwapped with a wooden spoon. 

**11:30 a.m.**

The turkey is stuffed and roasting, the beans are marinating, the quick bread is rising, the salad is assembled, and the cranberry sauce is prepared (homemade, of course). Jean sets out a cooler full of ice and props the wines and beers inside. He manages to thwart Armand’s attempts to make the cooler look just a bit nicer. 

**12 p.m.**

Constance and her niece are the first to arrive. Despite having been told she’s part of the family, Fleur is shy with her grand-uncles until Treville coaxes her out with a K-NEX building set he keeps for grandkids. D’Artagnan drives up a few minutes later and kisses his girlfriend hello, fistbumps Jean, and envelops Armand in one of his hugs that always, still, manages to surprise Armand with its intensity and good cheer. D’Artagnan immediately joins Fleur in building a Ferris wheel. 

**12:45 p.m.**

Anne and Aramis show up, a sleepy Louis in tow: “He fell asleep in the car,” Anne explains, handing the toddler to Constance while she takes her jacket off. Constance coos and pats Louis’ nose; Louis wakes up and bites her finger. 

**1 p.m.**

Milady and Porthos enter, carrying two pies each. Athos and Alice tag behind, also carrying two pies apiece. Raoul brings up the rear carrying a gallon of apple cider in his tiny arms. There is a narrowly averted puddle of cider all over the floor. 

**1:10 p.m.**

Jean orders all the kids to arrange together for a family picture. 

“What, now?” says Aramis. “Why not after we’ve eaten? Then you can get the tryptophan-induced bliss on our faces.” 

“Come on, let’s do it before we’re all too sloshed to stand up,” says Milady. She pulls Aramis into line and pokes him until he looks at the camera. 

**1:30 p.m.**

Louis has fully woken up, and is intent on destroying the Ferris wheel. Fleur tries to explain to him why it’s not nice to destroy other people’s things. Louis is not happy with her condescension. 

“Break it up, kiddos,” says Jean, scooping up Louis and carrying him over to the La-Z Boy in front of the TV. “Why don’t I tell you about the ancient and revered sport of American football.”

Louis quiets, and stares at the flat-screen in wonder. 

**1:45 p.m.**

Armand begins to ask Jean for help with the potatoes and finds Jean asleep in his chair, head lolling back, remote still clutched in one hand. Louis has disappeared in pursuit of more exciting things than football commercials. Armand spares a moment for a fond smile, and then recruits Alice for kitchen aid. 

**1:50 p.m.**

Anne offers to help Armand and Alice. They both hastily find other things for her to do that do not include food. 

 **2:15 p.m.**  

“What are you putting on the dog,” Armand demands. Milady grins but doesn’t look up, just tightens the velcro on the doggy sweater she’s arranging on Mazarin. 

“It’s a turkey-dog,” says Constance from where she’s sitting on the couch, glass of wine in one hand and one of her stockinged feet massaging d’Artagnan’s back where he’s still on the floor, now with Raoul. 

“Tur-dog,” suggests Milady. 

“Tur-doggen!” Constance giggles. 

**2:25 p.m.**

Porthos’ shout interrupts the halftime show. “Slight emergency in the study, someone bring paper towels.” 

They all rush in without paper towels, of course, and bump into each other in their rush to double back and grab the entire rolls needed to wipe pumpkin pie off Jean’s computer screen, Armand’s collection of amber-encased insects, their shared iPad, the leather computer seat, and the spines of a set of first-publication encyclopedias. 

Porthos lifts an orange-spattered Louis into the air and says, “Into the sink with you, troublemaker.” 

Louis screams. 

**3:15 p.m.**

Armand freezes mid-scrub of the computer chair and says, “Jean. The turkey.” 

Jean looks at him blankly. “What about it?” 

“Did you take it out of the oven?” 

They stare at each other, both foreseeing the next few exchanges –  _no I didn’t I thought you did; I thought_ you _did; oh shit oh shit; watch your language around the children; they’re not children anymore I can swear if I fucking want to; the_ grandchildren _Jean; oh fine oh fuck the_ turkey

Armand races to the oven and pulls open the door. He shuts it immediately, but it’s too late: the smoke alarm goes off right above his head. 

There are several cries of surprise from the next room. Anne enters the kitchen at a brisk pace and grabs a towel to flap into the air below the smoke alarm. The noise stops within a minute. 

Anne hands Armand the towel. “I’m a bit of an expert at that now,” she says sheepishly. 

**3:30 p.m.**

Jean rubs Armand’s shoulders. “It’s not ruined,” he soothes Armand. “We have a table full of lovely children and grandchildren out there who will appreciate eating anything you’ve made. They don’t care about the turkey.” 

At that moment Raoul says loudly in the next room, “Mama, are we not getting turkey this year?” 

Armand groans and drops his head to Jean’s shoulder. 

**3:36 p.m.**

Constance enters the kitchen, breaking apart the impromptu cuddling. 

“Sorry,” she says. “I just want to Instagram this.” She takes a selfie with the blackened turkey. 

**3:45 p.m.**

The whole family is gathered around Armand. 

“I didn’t mean to make light of your anguish,” Constance says earnestly, patting Armand’s ear (she is squished between Athos and Porthos, and can only reach Armand’s head). 

“None of us do,” says Alice. “But you know that the turkey isn’t the most important thing to us.” 

“Not me!” insists Raoul. “I’m hungry.” 

Milady untangles herself and kneels to scoop Roaul into her arms. “The most important thing about Thanksgiving is being together with family.” 

“And we’ve got a replacement turkey anyway,” says Aramis. He holds up a wiggling Mazarin, still dressed in the turkey outfit. “Tur-doggy!” 

Everyone groans. 

“I already made that joke hours ago,” Milady says. 

“We’re eating Mazarin?” Raoul asks, horrified. 

**4 p.m.**

Grace is said. Dinner is had. Food is passed, conversation flows, and the turkey gravy still goes well with everything, even without the turkey. 

 **4:15 p.m.**  

“Athos,” Armand begins delicately, “have you been working too hard lately?” 

Athos frowns and forks some more sweet potato onto his plate. “Actually, my workload has been lessened. Why? Do I look stressed?” 

“I merely thought you might not have had time to look in the mirror,” Armand says. “Or are you aware of that hideous growth growing just below your nose?” 

Jean snorts into his green beans. Milady raises her glass to Armand in a toast and says, “ _Thank_  you.” 

 **5:30 p.m.**  

“Come on,” Treville says briskly. “The best thing after a large meal is some light exercise.” 

“We better not be playing football,” groans d’Artagnan. 

“If you get up right now, we’ll only go on a walk.” Treville nudges the prone d’Artagnan with his toe. “Come on, varsity boy. Have you fallen out of shape so fast?” 

“You don’t understand,” d’Artagnan says dramatically, climbing to his feet. “I’m an old man now… I have bills to pay… mouths to feed…” 

“Oi,” says Constance lazily from the couch. “Who exactly are you feeding? Because the last time you made dinner you made tapioca and hot dogs, and I did not eat any of that, I can tell you.” 

“I liked it,” Fleur pipes up. 

D’Artagnan beams at her. 

**5:40 p.m.**

Jean tucks Armand’s hand into the crook of his arm. Armand squints against the glare of the last rays of the evening sun. The children (the real children, the grandchildren) are flushed, pink-faced with excitement and the cool air. The children (the  _real_  real children, their children, always their babies) are walking in bunches, half-leaning on each other in familiar support. They’re keeping an eye on the kids, laughing among themselves at old jokes and new stories. 

Armand’s heart swells as he looks upon them: their family, their legacy of happiness. He and Jean fought for this. Every argument in grocery store aisles, every sleepless night wondering if they’d get the adoption rights, every tantrum and smashed pie and burned turkey – it's all worth it, to know this kind of contentment. 

Jean squeezes his hand. Armand doesn’t have to turn to know that he’s smiling; he does anyway, to watch Jean’s eyes as they find his, to memorize once more that particular curve of his lips. 

This smile means,  _I adore you and I admire your dedication to perfection but I told you that everything was okay even though it was ruined, but I won’t say I told you so because you wouldn’t appreciate it and I’d like to get laid tonight;_ and also _I love you._

It means that Jean knows Armand, possibly better than he knows himself. 

He’s used to it. 

The grandchildren have found a swing set. Jean sits them on a bench nearby and unfolds the portable chess set he’d carried under his other arm. Armand watches him set up the pieces, content to do nothing but watch this man while surrounded by every one of his cherished people. 

Fleur is shrieking on the swings. Porthos is pushing Alice, laughing as she swings higher and higher. Athos has Raoul on his shoulders. 

“What’s this?” Armand asks dryly as Jean finishes the setup. “Appealing to my vanity?” 

“I thought you might like to unwind after your hard work today. And nothing puts you in a better mood than showing off how smart you are.” 

Armand smirks and moves a pawn. “Well, my genius is an irrefutable truth.” 

“Go on, then, try and beat me,” Jean laughs. “Just know that if I win, I’m deep-frying the turkey next year.” 


End file.
